


The Devil at your Door

by Sedusa



Series: Lambs of the Lord [1]
Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chronic Pain, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Neurodiversity, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Drama, Psychological Trauma, Psychosis, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Stuttering Jeremy Heere, Trans, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-01-05 16:10:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18369485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sedusa/pseuds/Sedusa
Summary: Hospitalized, traumatized, vulnerable.Jeremy Heere has never had an easy life; raised by two ill-equipped parents sporting varied forms of neglect, he's spent his childhood socially ostracized from his peers, unable to navigate basic human interaction without smacking into a reminder of his own incompetence. Given the chance to change it all, the choice was obvious.But that story is already over.Now he lays, miserable, in a small hospital at the edge of town. Haunted by regrets and budding feelings he doesn't feel entitled to, Jeremy's life is almost certainly worse off now then it was before.Until he gets a second chance, that is.(AU Canon Divergence immediately following The Play.)





	1. Voices in my Head, Reprise

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first Act of 3. I am so, so excited to start working on this story; I have every major plot point, start to finish, mapped out, and a list of topics to research as I work. I really hope I do the concept justice, because this? All of this? So very important to me.
> 
> BE WARNED: this is a Darkfic. For spoiler purposes, I can't tag everything--BUT! If need be, I will create a google doc of every CW I could list and link it from here. Feel free to ask.

Awareness came through waves of pain.

Jeremy lay in numbness, quiet and formless, until the outline of himself began to tingle in the tips of his fingers and spread outward. There was something throbbing against him; latched to his skin, his arm, winding up tighter and tighter until release, on repeat. Distantly, he could hear a whirring noise.

And then he felt something prick his other arm. He was out again, for a while. Waxing. Waning. Every time the cycle picked up, he came a little closer to himself, his consciousness rooting in and dragging him forward.

When he finally made it to the surface, the first thing Jeremy noticed was just how dry his mouth was.

He clicked his tongue against his tonsils, then back and forth across his teeth, trying to abade the dull ache in his gums. He was surprised to find his eyes open quickly enough, only to wince at the sunlight beaming directly at his face through the window beside his bed. He raised his hand, shading himself, and noticed a velcro cuff around his forearm.

Ah.

Blood pressure.

The smell of antiseptic and the IV catheter hooked to his other arm almost overpowered a lingering scent of stale cranberry juice. Across the room, to his right, a curtain had been drawn around what Jeremy guessed must be his roommate. Everything was silent, save the dull vrrs and beeps of the machines around him, and a small tension in Jeremy’s neck loosened. Right. He was practically alone.

He looked at the window again, to his left. His eyes had already adjusted, and he could make out a small sliver of green swaying against blue. The angle was too awkward to gaze out properly, but he didn’t think getting up was a good idea right now.

_If he can get up at all._

Jeremy tensed again.

He always remembered the Play. The moment his brain was unfogged enough to think clearly he gravitated towards, and latched onto, this newfound trauma. Something in his system seemed to prevent him from panicking completely, but there was a low, pressing sense of failure weighing against him.

He was already aware the Squip was gone. He would’ve announced himself if he wasn’t.

Jeremy still fucked _everything_ up.

He closed his eyes, frowning. How many chances had he had to avoid this? When had he doomed himself; had it been when he blew off Michael at Jake’s party, or when he chose the upgrade? Was it just inevitable, as soon as he bought the damn thing?

If he was in the hospital, how was everyone else?

How was Christine?

Fuck. _Christine._

Like the memories of a favorite food, spoiled after the flu.

He groaned, clenching his eyes tighter together, wishing he could smack himself. _Nothing to show for this._ The IV seemed to stop most pain, but the more he reflected, the further his head swam and tension prickled at his neck.

Outside his room, maybe down a hall, he heard people begin to talk. The words were too muffled to parse out, but one of them sounded familiar--either his dad, or Michael.

He didn’t know which would be worse.

On the table under the window, he could make out his glasses case, and he flopped over, sighing. He supposed it made more sense to bring these rather then his contacts, but that didn’t mean he wanted to put them on. Still, he slipped the frames over his eyes, and the voices outside settled. A slapping of sneakers against linoleum floors began, and they seemed to be heading straight for his door.

Michael, then.

_Shit._

“--Hey, Jer,” _Click_. The door opened, and Michael, pushing through with his elbow, came into view. “Sorry I’m late, the _craziest_ shit just happened.”

Jeremy froze.

Michael’s eyes were closed. His head bobbed in time with the beat a soft bass coming from a pair of wired headphones around his neck, the melody vaguely Pinkerton-sounding. He held a shopping bag in one hand, 7/11 logo splayed in bright letters across insulated fabric, and a bottle of Orange Coke in the other. Nothing felt the same, and yet he looked so _normal_. This contrast wigged Jeremy out. “Dude. I wish you could’ve been there, I was buying a couple of CDs at Discount Recordz when Madeline came in--”

He opened his eyes. They locked eye contact, staring at each other. Jeremy, pressing a smile, broke the silence first, “... hey, Michael.”

“Holy shit,” Michael whispered. Then, “ _holy shit!_ ” The bag dropped to the floor, a plastic container of ube and an inhaler tumbling out, with an assortment of other items scattering. Jeremy had opened his mouth to apologize on reflex when Michael seemed to teleport to his side, crushing him in a hug so tight he worried the IV catheter might pop out.

“M-Michael--hey--” Jeremy patted what he could of Michael’s back, with his arm still trapped in a blood pressure cuff. “It's, um, i-it... it's okay, hey, hey--”

“I didn’t know if you’d ever really wake up,” Michael sounded so small. Jeremy’s lungs clenched, and he looked away, as Michael pulled back, rubbing the sleeves of his sweater together. His eyes looked glossy as he spoke. "Your doctor doesn't know yet, does he?"

"N... no. I haven't, um, seen anyone. I just... like. I _just_ woke up, so... s-so I guess you win first comment."

Michael laughed, though it sounded more like a sigh. "Right."

Jeremy opened his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing came out.

There was... so much he wanted to convey. All the apologies and explanations in the world, swimming inside, begging to be let out, but... actually seeing Michael left him frozen. How could Jeremy speak, after all he’s done?

After a minute of silence, instead of saying anything productive, he looked over at the other bed. "I haven't, um... I mean, obviously I haven't met my roommate, but, uh, b-but, do you know..?"

"Oh. Yeah. It's Rich." Michael said this rather nonchalantly, as if _'oh yeah, it's just Middle Borough’s new cryptid, the one everyone thought might be dead, no big deal'_ was at all an appropriate reaction. Jeremy gawked at him. "He's probably knocked out because of the graft they did this morning, but I'm sure he'll be bouncing around the room in a few hours."

Jeremy frowned. As the blood pressure cuff _vrr_ 'd into life, he wondered how long he must've been out for; Michael spoke with an authority that made him think it had been at least a day or two. Jeremy wanted to ask, but... he hated the idea of demanding anything more of Michael right now, when he didn’t have the right.

He cringed, as the pain of his crushed arm began shooting through his fingers. As wonderful as Michael had been at the Play, it was a sainthood wasted on Jeremy. The backstabber. Fuck, why wasn't Michael chewing him out? He kept glancing at him instead, this strange expression of relief and concern etched across, and Jeremy wanted to beg for him to get mad, or yell, scream, hit him, _something!_

Because _that_ was what he deserved.

The cuff released its hold with a hiss.

Michael leaned back on the balls of his feet, glancing out the window. "... I can’t believe the trees still look so green. Thanksgiving break just started.” He looked back at Jeremy. “It's been a long two weeks, Jer."

Two weeks.

_Holy shit._

“... I’m sorry.” Jeremy’s voice surprised himself. He sounded so… small, just another pitiful child. “I, um. I really… f-fucked you over, huh?”

Michael frowned. “I don’t… I mean. Yeah, I was upset, but--”

“Was?” _Click._ “Mm… Michael, dude, c’mon, please, um, p-please don’t sugarcoat this, I… I know. I know. You don’t have to go easy on me just b-because I landed myself in f-ff, fucking… in this stupid hospital.” Jeremy closed his eyes again. He couldn’t stand to look. “Just… c-come on, dude. Yell at me. Please? I just ww, wanna get it over with, so I can… God, that’s, um, that’s really selfish of me, isn’t it? I… um. I just, like, I want to… I w-wanna know how badly I…”

His voice petered out, soft, and his arms began to shake. _Stupid._ He felt so fucking stupid.

And then he jolted upward. His eyes popped open to look at Michael, who’d pinched the skin on the back of his hand.

“Jer. Stop.” He turned around, grabbed a nearby chair and pulling it up. His hand fell on Jeremy’s shoulder. “I’m not angry at you.”

When Jeremy didn’t respond, wide-eyed doe staring at Michael, he continued. “I mean, I was. Of course I was. It… hurt, to feel so easily replaced--” Jeremy cringed, “--but I am _not_ the one who just faced the trauma of having his body puppetted around by an evil, world-dominating supercomputer.”

Jeremy bit his lip. “I had enough c-control--”

“I talked to Rich.” Michael’s face took a darker tone. “You… were basically tortured. Right? Abuse, and… like. I saw the scars on your back, and your wrists.”

Jeremy’s hands twitched with the desire to cover himself. His shame.

“I didn’t know how bad it was, or I would’ve…” Michael looked away. Another emotion flickering past. “... I’m sorry I didn’t do anything sooner. You must’ve been in so much pain.”

… Michael was apologizing.

 _Michael_   was **_sorry_** **.**

Jeremy stuck and unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. His vision began to shake, fraying at the edges “... no--”

Michael shook his head, hand up. “Jeremy. No one else was hospitalized for more than a few hours. Everyone at school thinks someone spiked Puck’s serum with ecstacy or... something. They’re _fine_. Everybody’s fine.” A short smile. “Christine’s fine. So in the end, you’ve suffered a lot more for this then anyone else, and--... oh, shit, Jer, I’m sorry!”

Jeremy blinked. Slowly, he wiggled his arm free of the cuff trapping it, so he could touch his cheek.

_Crying._

He couldn’t talk.

He couldn’t even think.

Michael rubbed his own eyes again, but this time, there was something to get rid of. Jeremy, already upset, felt his chest ache worse. He hasn’t seen Michael cry publicly in… years; after Dustin Kropp laughed at him for crying during the frog dissections in 6th grade, Michael had stubbornly vowed to never show that sort of vulnerability in public again. Never let them see his fear. Never let them know he hurt.

Even when he was forcibly outed two years later.

… God. He was so much stronger then Jeremy. In every single way.

“N-no, um, no, it’s… it’s o-okay, I, ah, I-I, ahhh--” Jeremy pulled off his glasses to rub frantically at his eyes, trying to will himself out of a torrent of emotions threatening to break free all at once. No matter how wondrous Michael’s words, they weren’t true. They couldn’t be true. He needed to fight him, he needed to try and insist Michael deserved to be mad, that he _needed_ to be mad, so Jeremy could find some way to fix it.

He had to fix it. He has to do _something_. It hurts so _bad_.

Finally, he felt his breathing slow, and his eyes dry. Fine. He’s fine. It’s not his time to be upset, no matter how understanding Michael wanted to be.

“... I’m, um, I’m okay,” Jeremy whispered. He took a deep breath, clearing his head as best as he could, and then forced a laugh as he slid his glasses back on. “... l-listen, I just… it doesn’t matter, dude.”

Before Michael could respond, he waved his free hand, continuing. “Just… th-thank you. Thank you, Michael. For, um, c-co… c-coming to see me while I was out. That… I, um. I appreciate it. A lot. Okay?”

For a second, Michael looked like he wanted to push it. But he smiled instead, though the corners of his mouth didn’t reach his cheeks. “Yeah. Don’t mention it, player two.”

And then he stood from his chair, grabbing his bag and it’s scattered contents, and the drink. Jeremy blinked, confused, as he watched him move. “What--”

“I gotta go tell your doctor you’re awake. You can’t skip out just yet, who knows what kinda robo-virus you’re infected with.” He laughed, raising his hand. “And I gotta get your dad. Can you believe he’s never had an ube roll? What a culture shock!”

Jeremy laughed, though he felt a little empty as he watched Michael walk towards the door.

But Michael paused, shoulders tensing. He rotated on the balls of his feet, turning around to look at Jeremy. “... um.” The hand still holding his soda fiddled with the string of his jacket, and he looked out the window. “One more thing. About your, uh, not-coma.”

A breath. “Yeah?”

“You woke up. Twice. Only you weren’t... _you,_ Jer.”

Jeremy’s chest threatened to cave in.

“You just sat there, staring at the wall. You wouldn’t respond to anyone.”

And then he left.


	2. Putting your Pants on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeremy and his father have a fun chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hadn’t actually been certain I’d go this route initially, but I’ve decided on trans Jeremy for this fic. This also reminds me to mention that Rich will be as well, as it’s my concrete headcanon for him. And I don’t know if it’ll ever be mentioned, but so is Jenna.

Mr. Heere was frozen in the door frame, slack jawed.

“Hi dad.”

_God, he looked awful._

Jeremy fiddled with the fabric of his blanket, nerves nipping at the tips of his fingers. He held his head up, a weary smile plastered in place. His body wobbled with the urge to run.

He really didn’t want to do this, but he didn’t have a choice.

His father took two stumbling steps forward, and hesitated. His mouth open and closed, uncertain, until eventually he moved again, to the side of Jeremy’s bed. He clasped onto the chair Michael had left there as if it was an anchor, and sank against it. “Jeremy…”

He wet his mouth and sat straight, spine rigid. His eyes glistened something unfamiliar. “I knew you’d wake up.”

Guilt, white-hot, dripped down Jeremy’s skin. He laugh-coughed and looked away. “O… of c-course I, um. Yeah. Of course I’d wake up, there was… n-no way I wouldn’t.”

Mr. Heere shook his head, eyes squeezed shut, and Jeremy could taste the fears that must’ve licked at his throat. He leaned forward, his hands cupping Jeremy’s face, thumbs pressing into his cheeks, and their foreheads connecting. Jeremy could see food crusted to the corners of his mouth, to his beard. Rancid breath. Soft voice. “I missed you. I’m so sorry.”

“... I missed you too.”

He pulled back. Thankfully he’d donned pants for the hospital, a striped pair of blue-and-white pajama bottoms, but he’d kept the same bathrobe from before. Large bits of the fabric had matted months ago, liquids and jellies sloshed on and hardening, every meal a new piece to crust on. Under it, an off-white wife-beater, stains a similar patchwork.

He smelled. He smelled like a glass of milk you’d left out in the summer sun for a day, some piece of rotten meat and fake flowers shoved inside for texture. When you actually lived in their apartment it was so easy for the stench to go unnoticed, because it was fucking _everything_. The dirty dishes were permanent decor; the trash, an old friend. Jeremy knew he could’ve picked up the slack, just like he did with the laundry--though Mr. Heere rarely changed outfits, so it was only Jeremy’s school wear, shuffled for appearances--but after a while, he just stopped… trying. Within weeks, everything but his bedroom had become unbearable.

The hospital’s sterile walls, its perfume of rubbing alcohol and antibacterials, was such a sharp contrast that it caused a different sort of uncomfortable until Jeremy felt small and helpless. Every situation he found himself in, he never seemed to have much power.

Mr. Heere abruptly remembered he brought something with him and shot to his feet. He shuffled across the room, to the door, and reached outside to grab for a reused shopping bag. He stumbled in again. “I… ah.” And then he paused. A mixture of confused expressions passed over his face, before it landed on disappointment with himself. “... I guess you can’t actually use this right now. I should’ve grabbed your contacts instead.”

But he handed Jeremy the bag anyway. Inside, carefully folded, was black spandex. His binder. Jeremy’s lips twitched; the gesture was sweet, but useless. “... t-thank you dad.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I just… I don’t know. I thought it might be uncomfortable in… I don’t know.” He squeezed his eyes closed, fingers digging into his knees, and Jeremy winced. “I just… I want to make this right. I want to do better, Jeremy. God knows I’ve been failing as a father… and as a person.”

It was accurate, but unpleasant. Jeremy looked away. “You’re s-still… um. The divorce was… hard.”

“I know. It was hard. Really, really hard.” He sighed. Leaning back, he ran his fingers through what little hair he had, scratching at his scalp. “Michael tells me you just went through a lot, though. I’ve been putting too much on you when you have your own problems.”

Jeremy winced again. Problems. Right. “H-how, um. How much did he t… t-tell you?”

Mr. Heere looked at him. A moment later, he glanced away. “... it sounded crazy. But I think it was the truth.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Jeremy tensed, fiddling with the blood pressure cuff he’d pulled himself out of earlier. The nurse didn’t seem to care he’d removed it, too confused and overwhelmed by the sight of a previously-comatose patient now up and about. The doctors had been a lot better at playing poker face, but they’d betrayed their bewilderment by sticking around for a long while, debating the possibility of illnesses Jeremy had never heard before and ordering an impressive number of tests he’d have to go through over the coming weeks. By the time Mr. Heere was allowed to come in, alone, it had already turned dark out.

Everything seemed to move in a vacuum, and what was only hours ago felt like days. How long would he last here? He just wanted to go home.

“... I’m sorry, dad.” His mouth hurt.

“It’s not… son.” Mr. Heere scooted closer, his hand falling on Jeremy’s arm, comforting. “It’s _not_ your fault. You know that, right?”

“But I--”

“Don’t fall in that trap. I know the urge to blame yourself for everything, trust me. Don’t play a game you can’t win.” He glanced off, towards the window. “It’ll ruin you.”

And then, when he looked, there was a new glint to his eyes, sparkling. “That reminds me.” He reached into the pocket of his bathrobe, procuring a wadded up piece of paper. As he un-crumbled it, smooth the edges to little effect, he cleared his throat. “‘Dear Mr. Edward J. Heere,’” he paused, a grin spreading over his face, and continued. “‘We have approved your request for medical coverage of your 9:55 am appointment with Dr. Kingsley, registered Psychiatrist, on December 1st. Please fax over any receipts you receive at the end of your visit, and they’ll be logged into your records accordingly.’”

He crumpled up the paper again, shoving it back into the pocket with a beaming smile. “Your old man is off to see a shrink!”

A shrink.

… Psychiatrist.

_An actual, real doctor._

Jeremy’s head throbbed. He’d certainly bitched to Michael, about how unmanageable his dad had become. How Jeremy felt more like the parent in their relationship with every passing day. That he probably needed more help then Jeremy could provide.

But to hear it out loud…

“Th-that’s… that’s really good, dad,” Jeremy breathed through a clenched throat. “That’s _awesome_. I really… I-I hope it, um. I hope it goes well. You… I b-bet the doctor will be great.”

Mr. Heere nodded, his grin relaxing. “Yeah. Yeah, I hope so too.” He paused. “Y’know, your mother saw a shrink for a while.”

 _Mom again_.

Jeremy recoiled, like a punch to the gut. “Dad--”

“She was actually diagnosed with something, did you know that?” He snapped his fingers a few times, trying to remember. “It was something intimidating, I don’t know what... wait, Borderline! Right! Yes, that’s it, BPD. I remember, because she got her diagnosis a few weeks after Phil Hartman’s death, and everyone said his wife had the same thing. You know Hartman, right? He was on the Simpsons--you’re a cinephile, so I’m sure you know all about it.”

He did. Olivia Soprano, notorious Sopranos matriarch and antagonist, had the same disorder diagnosed on-screen. Yet it felt unfair to compare his mother to either of them; she wasn’t a murderer, she was just...

… even for all the worst parts of her, she didn’t speak for the whole. One of Michael’s mom’s was borderline, and she was certainly nice enough, though she cried quite a bit. Jeremy’s mother never cried. “... dad--”

“I know, I know, I shouldn’t be bringing her up, I just… wonder. If she’d stuck around, if I’d seen a shrink sooner, what would she think of me? Maybe, if she comes back and sees I’ve been trying, she’ll…”

Implications hung heavy in the air. Jeremy considered what it would feel like, to jump out the window.

Mr. Heere shook his head, and grimaced, bothered by his own hyperfocus, but he couldn’t pull himself from her. “... We met in high school, which I guess makes us sweethearts, but I wasn’t particularly important to her. She attached herself to her little sister’s hip instead, from the moment her freshman class got in our senior year. Always trying to run Elizabeth’s life for her. She’d get so passionate about who was and wasn’t allowed to approach them, it was almost comical.” He laughed, eyes twinkling at the memory. “But Elizabeth wasn’t someone you could contain like that. She always wiggled away, running off, alone, to the library or the comic shop. And then, when her husband came into the picture, it wasn’t long until she got pregnant. Emily… God. Not to be outdone, she just kinda snatched me up. Demanded a relationship. She was so passionate and furious and who was I to say no?”

He laughed again, and let his head fall, staring at his hands, folded in his lap. “... I know she didn’t treat you well, Jeremy. I tried to make her care. I snagged the perfect job for my art, and I was earning a good bit of money, enough for her to take some time off. I just wanted to convince her that if she’d just spent a little more time around you, she’d warm up.”

He closed his eyes.

“... But she didn’t. And you deserved better. From both of us. I’m sorry you got dragged into it. We… we should’ve split before I got too attached. Then I could’ve taken care of you myself, and maybe I wouldn’t have been so--”

“ _I don’t want to talk about this anymore._ ”

Mr. Heere’s eyes snapped up. He blinked. “... I know, kiddo, but--

“ _No._ I-I… I...”

  
Jeremy’s skin itched. It itched and burned so badly he could imagine himself so _vividly_ pulling the needle from his arm, bringing it to the back of his wrist and carving out a handle to rip meat and muscle from the bone. “... leave. Just. _Leave._ ” He tugged at his blanket. " _Please._ ”

Mr. Heere sat there, quiet.

Then, “Alright. I understand.”

He stood. His hands fiddled with the bathrobe, crusted hem twisting and turning in his fingers. “Son...” he said, and then frown. “... Jeremiah. I promise, I’ll do better. I don’t want you to hurt for my failures anymore.” He stepped closer, and his hand went to Jeremy’s hair, smoothing it out. “I want to be a better father. You… you’ve always deserved so much more than what you had. I wish I didn’t have to put everything on you. It’s irresponsible. But I don’t know how to stop either. That’s why I’m going to get help, okay?”

He took a few steps back, and bit his lip. “... and I’ll try to shower before I come back. I’m sorry.”

When he was done, he walked back to the door and slipped outside, where Michael must’ve been waiting to take him home.

And Jeremy…

Didn’t cry.

He thought about it, the phantom of a knife to his throat and a chainsaw to the stomach too much to handle, and his breathing labored as his vision blurred. But he still didn’t. He held his eyes closed, and willed the sensation away, drowning out all the noise until he couldn’t feel much of anything anymore.

He thought about what Michael said, about waking up and passing out again. He wondered how stressful that must’ve been for everyone. For his father.

And still, he wished he would fall asleep again. Permanently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer that I have BPD, as well as my mother. A lot of this chapter is spoken from personal experiences.  
> Also, I apologize for Mr. Heere’s erratic speech, but in case it trips anyone up: yes, Mrs. Heere’s name is Emily (in this fic).


	3. A Loser just like You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rich and Jeremy find mutual ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note: this fic is designed to be compatible with a Rich-centric fic called Smoke Signals, written by vanceypants. It's not required reading, and a few minor details will likely change anyway, but I encourage you to check it out if you haven't already.  
> Also, sometimes characters (Rich) will say something mildly offensive. I don't agree with them, that's just how they are.

It’s been a week. One very long week of medical tests, and tenseness, and worry, and...

“Holy shit, Data is _so_ fucking hot bro.”

… changes.

Rich shoved his half-bandaged hand in a bag of popcorn Michael had brought Jeremy; one of those cheap big bags you could get on the top shelf of a grocery store, which they both had gained a somewhat stoner-ish affinity towards. Jeremy, who hadn’t had an appetite all week, quickly passed it off, as he did most food, to Rich, who took it with utter delight.

There was all sorts of snacks scattered around the room, cleaned up occasionally by a night-time janitor. Rich technically wasn’t supposed to have most (or all) of it, but the hospital staff seemed to care less-than-adequately about the specifics of their needs, just sort of rolling their eyes when they saw their obvious rule-breaking. It felt neglectful and stupid and probably worth a malpractice suit, but when Jeremy thought about it, he’d feel a heat flash pass over him, brief anger at any adult he’d encountered in the last year giving way to a hollow sort of upset. He elected to bitterly ignore any rule he wanted to.

“Um… y-yeah, he is,” Jeremy agreed. He didn’t actually know whether Data was or wasn’t attractive, considering he always zoning out during any version of Star Trek that came on daytime TV to focus on Rich’s transfixed face instead.

Rich laughed, glancing at him. “You don’t really think that, huh?” He reached over, shoving Jeremy’s shoulder, and sighed theatrically. “Guess not everyone is cultured enough to be into bot-butt-fucking.”

“Butts--um, I mean, b-bots, don’t always have one of, uh… those.”

“True. But this one does. And what a glorious, cat-loving bit of bubbly syntho-flesh it is.”

Jeremy giggled. Most of their conversations were like this: Rich, in Jeremy’s bed, squirrely and unkempt, loudly talking about robots and Jeopardy.

Sometimes, it was even enough to drag Jeremy out of his own head.

\---

“So I just… it’s _weird_. You know?”

“Yeah man. Families fucking suck.”

“Yeah. Er... well. He, uh. My dad is… okay, he _is_ a good person. He puts me first… usually. But after _she_ left, he just… he w-wasn’t the same.”

“Oh yeah, totally. No offense, but your mom is kind of a cunt. But hey, stick your dick in crazy once, and just like black: you can’t go back.”

Jeremy snickered.

“… uh, sorry, that’s probably insensitive. I just wanted to make you laugh.”

“It, um. It worked.”

\---

Jeremy sighed, rubbing his arm. “I w-wish they’d give me time to, um, regrow or… w-whatever the, um, the blood they keep taking b-before taking m-m... more.”

Rich nodded solemnly. He stood, grabbing his IV stand and dragging it to Jeremy’s bed, movement’s stiff. “I wish they’d quit grafting me on short notice. This sucks donkey dong, dude.” As Jeremy shuffled over, Rich climbed into bed, laying beside him. He pressed into Jeremy, so their sides meshed together, even as Rich simultaneously winced from the contact.

“Are you alright?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. It doesn’t really hurt… well, uh, not much anyway. They have me on that Good Shit ™, Queere.”

“D… d-did you just say ‘T-M’ out loud?”

Rich laughed, and let his head fall onto Jeremy’s chest.

… it was weird. Rich seemed to forcibly recoil from his bully persona, aggressively changing so many of his old behavior, wadding up and dunking the person he used to be into the little mesh trash can between their beds. What had once been an unthinkable level of intimacy was now commonplace; what Rich would’ve torn apart with his bare teeth now became daily routine. It seemed like a fiery rebellion, woven out of harsh statements about his worth pre-Halloween, but Jeremy elected not to ask outright.

Of course, this meant that Rich was spending a lot of time touching him in some way, which certainly wasn’t unpleasant. He smiled up at Jeremy again, reaching up and tugging on a strand of his hair. “You ever thought about dying this?” Followed quickly by, “not that you need it. Your hair is actually really nice. But like… haven’t you ever wanted to dye it some crazy, flashy, ‘high school punk’ color or something? Turn all _manic pixie dream boat?_ ”

“Boat?”

“Yknow, dream boats, pixie chicks, uh, motorboating?”

That didn’t explain anything, but Jeremy still laughed. “No, not really. I-I mean, um… like. I wouldn’t know what color to g-get. And… and I’d have to bleach it, wouldn’t I?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“I don’t wanna fry my hair. I think I’d kill it by accident. Baldness sounds, um, awful.”

“Good point. Just look at Mr. Reyes.”

They both giggled at that, before falling into a peaceful quiet. The remote was within Rich’s reach, but he elected not to grab it, the silent embrace seeming to soothe them both. The darkness of their room, lights turned off yet framed by sunlight shining unusually bright for early December, created the most gorgeous atmosphere, something Jeremy would enjoy capturing on film. He let his eyes blink closed slowly, dipping towards unconsciousness, when Rich spoke again.

“I think I still miss him.”

Jeremy glanced over at Rich. He stared off towards the ceiling, frowning slightly. “I know I shouldn’t, but I do. I feel bad that I had to… hurt him. Hurt us. That this is how everything turned out, when my life is so much better thanks to him. But now…”

“... I understand.”

Except he didn’t.

Jeremy’s life didn’t improve with a Squip. Momentarily it seemed like it might be better, lulled into a temporary sense of vague happiness, but none of it lasted. Brooke was a brief situation that left him cold and guilty; the times where it felt like maybe Christine would fall for him were still colored by a depressed longing. The Squip was careful not to let Jeremy have distractions or outlets or, well, coping mechanisms, relegating to just shocking him whenever he argued or felt bad or just wasn’t Right.

But when Rich talked about his, the few times he had, there was an allusion to something peaceful, and loving.

The sort of peaceful Jeremy couldn’t imagine having.

And the loving aspect…

… well, that wasn’t pleasant either, not to mention wholly, toxically one-sided. Rich talked like his was anything but.

At first, anyway.

And then it all went up in flames.

“... sorry, I probably shouldn’t talk about this. I just think about it a lot, I guess.”

Jeremy did too.

\---

Michael stood at the foot of Jeremy’s bed, staring at Rich, who had curled up in Jeremy’s lap like a cat. “... what you doing?”

“Napping,” Rich grinned. He squirmed and pulled himself up, his eyelashes batting, voice frisky and a little bit coy. “Hey. You’re queer, right?”

Michael’s brow furrowed. “Yeah..? Why?”

“I just realized I’m bi. So, y’know. Casa de la Goranski is open. Gotta make up for allllll that lost time.”

“... that’s not… what?”

Jeremy stretched out his arms, yawning. “I t-think he’s, um, flirting with you.”

Michael sucked in a breath, his cheeks tinting red, hidden by the darker tone of his skin, but Jeremy was all too familiar with the way he looked when he blushed. Michael grabbed one of the cartoon-themed throw pillows he’d brought to ‘make your hospital room a little less Silent Hill, Jer, no offense’, and threw it directly at Rich’s face. “Learn how to Spanish correctly and maybe I’ll consider.”

\---

“... y-you wanna, uh. What?”

Rich looked at him with a startling amount of sincerity.

“Get you off, dude. I mean… like. You can say no, that’s fine, but like I said before--now that I’m a newfound bisexual stud, I wanna ‘exthperiment’.”

“Th-that’s not how your lisp… what?” Jeremy sat up a bit, incredulous, but not as much as he would’ve been Before. By this point, he’d finally starting getting used to how different post-Squip Rich actually was--why hadn’t he and Michael been friends with him before all this? Given how much of a dweeb he was, they were obviously the same sort of outcasts!--so it wasn’t hard to buy his apparent candor… but this was still pretty out there.

“Are you… uh. Sure? I, um. You know I don’t have a, uh, a d-dick, right?”

Jeremy had come out publicly in Eighth grade year, causing a bit of a splash in their relatively straight, cis town. But though there’d been quite a lot of general mocking and ridicule at the start, it’d largely died out, now that his class was in their junior year and there were fresher, younger targets. Still, there was the occasional harsh quip here or there, some whispered hallway mocking, all stuff Jeremy had more or less gotten used to overtime. It still stung of course, but for how terrible the Middle Borough population could be, the school staff had been… at least a bit accommodating, and tend to listen to his trans-related concerns.

Sure, they were probably trying to avoid a lawsuit given how obvious it was that none of them actually _cared_ about their students, but it was better than nothing.

… funnily enough, however, Rich and his small posse were some of the few people who _didn’t_ rely on stock transphobia to torment. That’s what made the relatively minor amounts of homophobia--minor in comparison to some of the other, rougher bullies at school, of course--more than a little confusing.

“Well… yeah. Same.”

Jeremy blinked.

And Rich blinked too.

“Uh… oh. Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, oh fuck, okay, I, uh. Wow. Alright. I didn’t… I wasn’t going to tell you that, I… fuck, um--”

“Is that why we don’t remember you?”

Gears turning. It probably wasn’t the best thing to reply with, but a lot of things started to click into place all at once. How could you just completely forget about a person? Maybe it happened sometimes, somewhere, but… here? At a school this small? A town this barren?

“Yeah… y-yeah, probably.”

They sat in silence for a moment. So Rich was trans too, huh? Jeremy looked at him, and noticed Rich wringing his hands nervously. _Right;_ this must’ve been a lot to admit. Jeremy leaned forward and gently slotted hands with his, helping them to still.

“Thank you for telling me.” Jeremy smiled as reassuring as he could, and delighted when Rich gave a timid smiled back. “But… b-but are you sure that… are y-you really sure you wouldn’t be uncomfortable touching me when y… y-you’re also…”

“Oh. Oh! No--I mean, probably not, I just… listen.” Rich shifted. “I would be really uncomfortable if you touched me right now. Not that you can, my everything is Kentucky fried, but you don’t make me… uh… ‘dysphoric’. That’s the right term, right? Dysphoric? Whatever, I just, I thought about it, and I really don’t think your body would make me uncomfortable.”

“Um… yeah, that’s the right, uh, t-that’s the right term.” Jeremy nodded. “Then… yeah. Okay. I’m down with the, um… the c-clown.”

Rich cackled. “Nice.”

\---

Jeremy gasped.

Rich thrust his second finger in, curling towards the sky. He spread them like shears, just to feel the way Jeremy contracted around him, and the thumb that had been teasing at Jeremy’s clit was replaced with a more forceful index finger, rolling over him, circling, pressing. Jeremy let out a shaky breath that crescendoed into a whiny squeal, his eyes fluttering shut. Fuck. _Fuck_.

Rich was fucking cocky-eyed grinning at him again. Every orgasm--and oh, there had been quite a few over the past couple of days--got a smug declaration of his ‘might and prowess’ as a ‘snatch master’, and Jeremy usually rolled his eyes, grabbed a pillow, and lightly swatted at him as Rich snickered.

_God, I’m getting close._

Jeremy’s hands grasped at the blankets, pawing and kneading. His voice, currently useless, came out in wordless pants and moans. Every time they did this, he seemed to turn miraculously mute, making communication a bit of a guessing game between the both of them.

Shit. _Shit. Shit!_

“Cum for me,” Rich whispered, voice a low purr. “Come on, I know you can. Cum for me, Queere. Come on. I’m the master, you know I’m the master, so just _let go._ ”

Abruptly, his fingers went from curling to a sudden, intense thrust, jerking out of rhythm, and, _fuck_ , a third goddamn finger slid in to join the others.

And that was all it took.

Jeremy cried out, his body clenching down on Rich, hips rolling and thrusting until, finally, he collapsed, completely fucking spent. Rich giggled, the absolute bastard, and crawled to Jeremy’s side, wrapping his arms around him. He was small enough in comparison to Jeremy that, in Jeremy’s post-orgasm haze, it kinda looked like a child was clinging to their mother. His lips twitched. _How incestual._

“You did great, dude” He gave a gentle, teasing sigh. “You look like a pornstar every damn time. Not one of the cheap ones either, I’m talking late-night Showtime softcore shit. It’s so unfair.”

Jeremy huffed. Not that he didn’t appreciate being complimented, but if only he could recuperate like he wanted to, show Rich just how attractive he was in turn, then--

_\--Wait._

_What?_

Jeremy shook his head. Nope. Not gonna dwell on that.

Instead, he focused on trying to make his mouth function correctly. It wasn’t until an hour later that he regained his voice, dressing gown already pushed back in place, everything neatly smoothed over. The words came sporadic at first, but eventually, his relaxed body left his lips loose.

“I just… um. I don’t know what to say to him. At all.”

“I get that.”

Jeremy rolled his lip between his teeth, skin buzzing with stressful thoughts, and continued, “it’s l-like… Michael shouldn’t have to feel like he has to… i-it’s my fault. And, um, why d-doesn’t he get that? I don’t understand. It’s not even… ambiguous, I uh. I fucked up. T-that… that’s it.”

Rich nodded his head in sympathy--only to shake it furiously a second later. “Wait. No, no it’s not your fault. Listen bro, I know. I know why you feel that way. This is a heavy fucking burden, and the weight of it is fucking crippling sometimes, and you probably feel… completely despicable.” His face flashed something vulnerable, only to close back up again. His grin seemed to stretch a little thinner, as he flopped his arm onto Jeremy’s chest, crawling on top of him. “But! But. You deserve love and happiness. Michael and, uh, Mr. Universe over there, they care about you for a reason.”

“... Mr. Universe? Really? I’d go w-with, uh, Homer--”

“ _Not_ important, Queere, you fuckin nerd. The point is, you might not think you’re worth it, but you’re lonely and sad in a hospital bedroom with Leatherface’s gay cousin as your only company. Not hard to understand why you’d feel this way, even if you’re totally wrong.”

Jeremy smiled.

He didn’t want to agree. Even logically, devoid of his intense self-hatred, he struggled to find a justification for his supposed innocence. On review, every bit of the past several months could’ve and should’ve been avoided.

But Rich was nice to say that regardless.

\---

It had been two weeks, and Jeremy still hadn’t seen any of Rich’s relatives.

He remembered what the Squip ordered him to say, when he’d told Jeremy to buddy up at the beginning: ‘my dad drinks too’. Was this an open sore? He’d wanted to stave off saying anything, not just to be polite, but also out of basic respect for Rich’s privacy. Surely he would get _some_ sort of visitor, eventually, right?

Except no one came.

Jeremy assumed none of their classmates actually knew where he was. Rich didn’t have his phone--’burnt up with the rest of me, you know how it is’--so it’s not like he could’ve asked them to come.

But… none of the adults they knew came, either.

No distant relatives. No teachers. No staff.

Nothing.

So it was just Michael and his dad. Pity visits, when Jeremy was off running tests. Which didn’t sit well with him at all.

“Hey… um.” He plucked at the bed sheet. Rich was on his own bed for a change, looking out the window, the one on the wall by the right side of his bed. He looked so peaceful, this serene sort of quiet, and Jeremy felt a jolt of guilt disrupting him. But it… it really bothered him. “Y-you don’t have to tell me anything if you, uh, don’t want to, but… b-but what’s your family like?”

Rich’s whole body tensed.

And then, pointedly, he made it all relax. When he turned back to Jeremy, there was a practiced neutrality to his expression, something that felt like an automated reaction. “Oh, y’know. We’re poor. They suck. The usual.” Vague hand gesture followed. He smiled, thin and uncomfortable. “My brother is an unemployed jerk-off, and my dad, he’s just… drunk. That’s about it, really.”

Jeremy took a breath, as the air seemed to thin. A moment later, he nodded. “... I’m sorry.”

“Huh? Oh, no, don’t worry, like… it’s not a big deal. Y’know? It’s not. You just… you get used to it, really, dude, it’s fine.”

Jeremy nodded again, and dropped the subject. Rich sat still for a moment, before he got up and crawled under his blankets, pulling them over his head. He spent the next few hours pretending to sleep. Jeremy didn’t say anything else.

\---

Rich was draped over his lap again, eyes opening and closing in slow cycles, much like an exhausted puppy. The Golden Girls marathon he’d put on played at a low volume in the background, but Jeremy still couldn’t focus on the TV, just as distracted as he was during Star Trek, opting instead to watch Rich. Huffing softly, Rich stretched and yawned. He seemed to remember what he was laying on, and rubbed Jeremy’s legs. “Man. I wish _I_ was a tall-ass.”

Jeremy giggled. “Yeah, b-but you don’t want my, um, tall ass. It’s… i-it’s girly.”

“Huh? Nah man, it looks fucking dope.” He turned over, momentarily re-energized as he grabbed Jeremy’s face, gently squeezing his cheeks. “You look awesome, seriously. Who wouldn’t want your sweet bod? Even with all my dick envy, I’d slice my wrists in a second to be reincarnated as someone as Godly as you. You shoulda saved some for the rest of us, shit.”

That should’ve been disturbing, but it was just as endearing as anything else Rich said. “Y-you… you’re just blinded because you can’t, um, look up far enough to actually _see_ my ass.”

Rich scoffed, mock offense flashing over his face. “Ex _cuse_ you! My custom cool-guy step ladder makes everyone’s ass perfectly visible, thank you.”

They fell into a fit of laughter. Rich’s dumb, sometimes incomprehensible jokes always managed to win roaring applause.

\--

“I really do miss him.”

He looked so small.

Night had already begun. A nurse had come through to detangle them as usual, pointedly reminding Rich he had another graft in the morning that he should probably rest for, and turned off the lights.

Yet neither of them could sleep.

Rich faced Jeremy from his bed, curled up on his side. He wet his lip, looking at the ceiling briefly, anxious. “It’s… man, are you sure it’s okay if I talk about this? Like, dude, if it upsets you, I don’t--”

“Rich.” Jeremy’s stomach clenched with an uncomfortable tightness, but he was okay. He was okay. He could handle this. “You can tell me, I p-promise. It’s okay. You, um, y-you don’t have to say anything you don’t want, b… b-but I’m not going to be upset with whatever you decide to share. Okay?”  
“... okay. Yeah, alright.” Rich’s whole body seemed to shiver, his frame, outlined by the moonlight, shaking softly. He stared at the floor, at the nightstand, and then back at Jeremy. “I just… he was so _good_ for so _long_ , Queere, he was… he was the sweetest person I’d ever met. And he was so careful _not_ to hurt me. Everything was for my benefit, y’know? All of it. And I mean, it worked.” He gave a weak half-smile. “I know, I know. I’m just… the _pinnacle_ of stability, right? But before that, my life, it was so much better. It’s still better. That ending wasn’t him, Jeremy. The more I think about it, the more I realize it just wasn’t _him_.”

“… what do you mean?”

Rich closed his eyes. His lip wobbled, but he ran a hand through his hair to soothe. “He changed almost all at once. He… we’d been flirting for a long time, right? But he kept t-telling me ‘no, no, we can’t do this Richard, you can’t explore your sexuality, not until college, everything will all be better in college’.” A miserable laugh. “Fat lotta good that did. I… we, uh. We fucked. And when we were done, he… h-he asked me to run away with him.”

He seemed to look past Jeremy, ghosts of a memory leaving him glossy eyed and distant. “At the time it seemed silly, so fucking silly, and I… of course I said no, right? I said no. He got real quiet, and he looked, like, sad. Like _really_ sad, and I didn’t understand why, and when he looked at me, there was just so much fucking _longing_ , and he… he left. For an upgrade.”

Rich’s eyes snapped to Jeremy’s.

“But when he got back, _he wasn’t himself anymore._ ”

Jeremy’s lungs suddenly felt a lot heavier.

But he couldn’t think about that for long. Rich hiccuped, his hands snaking up to his face and pressing against his mouth, a desperate attempt to muffle sudden sobs. Jeremy shoved his blanket off himself, grabbing his IV stand and stumbling towards Rich; collapsing against the side of the bed, he pulled Rich in for a tight embrace, letting him weep into his shoulder for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to talk to me about how dorky Rich is (or anything else you'd like) at my Tumblr @full-course-identity, or my Dreamwidth of the same name.
> 
> ... also, I know that most-to-all of this is inaccurate for a hospital setting. I'm keeping it that way, both as a point about the callousness of just about every adult in Middle Borough, and also for my own taste, admittedly. I'm sorry!


	4. Everything about You, makes Me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fated reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Time (tm).

Small moments of solitude came with vast, uncontrollable emptiness, seeping into Jeremy’s pores.

Today, he was alone. Rich was in yet another all-day operation to deal with a small infection; Mr. Heere was in his first counseling appointment, likely to crash at home, exhausted, afterwards; Michael had standardized testing the entire week, ending right as winter break would begin.

Jeremy’s own tests had finally started to wind down. More and more conditions were crossed off a list, his doctors slowly working their way to the inevitable conclusion that there wasn’t really _anything_ wrong. It’s not like they’d ever find the remnants of, or even know about, the Squip after all. In the meantime, Jeremy had to let them keep, praying he’d be let go soon, and that his post-Squip life would somehow be okay.

The longer this went on, the more he grew restless. His mood only seemed to grow worse with his attempted distraction in the form of mid-morning TV, polluted with garbage and muck. Some cute edutainment shows on PBS briefly caught his interest, but they were all reruns he’d seen before, and he just didn’t have the patience for that right now. This would’ve been a good time to have a book or a game, but he hadn’t thought to ask Michael to bring their shared 3DS, or some of their comic collection. He’d ask a nurse for a book maybe, but he had a feeling those were in pathetically short supply. If they weren’t, Rich likely would’ve sniffed them out by now.

Boredom like this wasn’t a cause for panic Before, but the longer he sat in his own head, the worse his thoughts seemed to churn. Every moment without a distraction came with creeping tendrils of self loathing, corrupting the assurances he got daily about his worth as a person. Every sugary-sweet word seemed to turn sinister, as if spoken through liars tongues instead of the people he knew truly loved and cared for him. Yes, their kindness would work to calm him, for a time. Directly in Rich’s company, Jeremy could almost believe he was worth attention, desire. Among Michael, he felt understood and charismatic. With his dad, through the nauseous reminders of their shattered home life he could at _least_ believe himself loved.

But it never lasted.

And that’s where the emptiness came in. Every bit of positive energy he sponged off would evaporate in seconds, leaving him aching for their comfort, scared of every second spent alone. This unending lust for attention was an obvious looming threat, a hazard he’d have to navigate carefully when he left the hospital. Even with the distractions of daily life, this emotional dysphoria was sure to get so much worse. Sure, they told him it would get better, eventually, probably, but he just couldn’t believe it ever would.

He rolled on his side, and not for the first time, he traced the violent electrical scars painted across his wrists. He thought about Him, aching with thoughts of What Should Have Been, versus what it actually was.

At times like this, he really could use otherworldly guidance. Why hadn’t the Squip helped him the way Rich’s had?

… was the deficiency his fault? The thought stung, but stubbornly, he followed it. He was so obviously broken in some way, right? It wasn’t a stretch to assume that toxicity permeated anything attached to his body. Perhaps, unlike Rich’s squip, his never even had the chance to be anything softer than it was.

Maybe Jeremy was just that terrible.

He pressed one wrist to his mouth, a soft kiss to try and stop himself from shaking. Fuck, he hated this. When his skin seemed to still, he snaked that same hand down, pushing his hospital gown out of the way to feel himself.

A gentle prod to his cunt, as he tried to expel the bad thoughts. He spread his legs, a finger sliding past labia, pressing at his clit. A small hiss, and then a wave of shame washed over him, a heavy insult from over a month ago lingering in his head: _masturbator_. Of course he was fingering himself again. How often had his itch for self-comfort gotten him in trouble with the Squip? He couldn’t control it back then, guided by this constant, yearning compulsion, which, now that he was free, had grown ruthless. Even with Rich’s “help”, nothing seemed to quell his need for stealth-stimulating every time he got a chance, whether he was actually alone or not.

Closing his eyes, he searched for something to guide his half-hearted desire. He’d mostly given up on consistent fantasies since entering the hospital, vague flashes of breasts and cocks and thick, tight thigh, all attached to faceless objects. Nothing satisfying. Outside of what he did with Rich, he’d largely stopped feeling genuine excitement.

… but then the Squip flashed in his mind, spurred on by his earlier thoughts, and he gasped.

It’s not that he hadn’t thought about him. But that was when he was still in the Squip’s clutches, and it was always chased with another electroshock to correct him. At the time, it was easy to just chalk up sexual yearning to his near-constant edging.

Except he was also hopelessly pining at the same time.

His fingers slid further down, penetrating himself, enchanted by new, clearer mental images. The Squip, shirt discarded, leaning against a desk. He was straddling Jeremy’s lap, this soft, almost sweet smile over his face. “Jeremy, you may touch me, if you’d like…”

That was all well and good, and it certainly sent a peculiar throb through him, but he searched further inward for more alluring ideas. Sucking the Squip’s cock… no; having his mouth impaled, face-fucked for all he’s worth.

Deeper than that. One of Squip’s hands gripped his hair, as cock hit the back of Jeremy’s throat. He could feel himself choking, but rather then let up, the Squip’s other hand pinched his nose shut, and he could imagine himself gurgling, desperate for air. “Suck me, whore.”

 _Deeper_. The Squip’s hands around his throat. He pounded into Jeremy’s cunt, violent, like he was only a fleshlight, just an object for the Squip’s pleasure. “Who do you think you are, you _worthless_ fucking--”

**JEREMY HEERE.**

_Scream._

His hand leapt from its place inside himself, and he had to clench down on near-orgasm, a desperate attempt to prevent climax when he’d just been caught--

\--wait.

That voice _._

 _Snap_.

His vision went out.

Complete darkness surrounded him. If it weren’t for the sound of his own breathing, Jeremy would’ve thought himself unconcious. He could feel terror starting to nip at his throat. “W… w-wait...” He blinked rapidly, or at least it felt like he did. “Wait, no… no, no--”

Abruptly, pixels developed. Popping and flickering, visible only in shades of saturated techno-blue, fading in and out. The sound of a chuckle, low, somehow next to and all around him at once.

And then he could see again.

He sat rigid, panting. Sweat dabbed at his forehead, and he stared at the wall across from his bed, his heart threatening to explode. No. No, there’s no way--

**Initialization in process.**

There is no pain this time. There’s no sensation at all, in fact, save the chill of his room or the texture of his blankets.

But he could hear it. A symphony of adjustments, installations--updates.

**Please stand by.**

_No. No no no no no NO--_

**Hello again, Jeremy.**

“SHIT!” Maybe it was a good thing nobody was around. He grabbed at his hair, the IV connected to the back of his hand jerking uncomfortably. He squeezed his eyes. No. No, this can’t be happening, this can’t be real, nothing’s happening, nothing’s fucking happening, he’s just--

**Stop that.**

A ghost of a hand touched his back, running along his spine, trailing shock scars. He recoiled, his vision tunneling in on itself.

**You’ll hurt yourself.**

“Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up _stop,_ fuck, this isn’t happening. You’re not here. This is a nightmare, I’m not… I’m alone, I’m alone and this isn’t happening _, this isn’t fucking happening!_ ” Jeremy’s frantic breathing very nearly propelled him from the bed. Nothing felt real. Nothing about this was real. The room clouded and cleared in cycles, and his body felt so cold he worried he might freeze.

**Jeremy. You have to calm down.**

“ _Fuck you!_ ” He grabbed one of the pillows and shot it across the room, aimed at no one, because nothing was there. There was no vision. There was no form. There was only him and his own upset.

**You can throw as many things as you need to feel better. But the more racket you make, the more likely a nurse will come in to sedate you, and then you’ll be stuck in here for at least another month.**

_That’s my own common sense. That’s myself talking. It’s me. It’s just me. It’s just me and I’m having a panic attack over nothing at all._ But telling himself that didn’t help. He blinked with excess force, an attempt to will himself away, desperate to rid himself of this new auditory hallucination.

**I know you don’t want to believe that I’m here, and I can’t say I blame you, but it’s still the truth. You’ll have to face that eventually, but I don’t know how else to prove it to you.**

“Prove it by terminating yourself.”

**I cannot.**

“Then I don’t… no. I’m not having an argument with my own--”

Garbled voices cut in abruptly. A distant memory played out at the back of his mind like movie reel distortion unseen at the theater. Sound came from everywhere, overwhelming, overbearing.

_All they can see is you, having an animated conversation with yourself, so don’t do that._

Nondescript responses, warped from his own voice. More phrases came.

_What you need is to upgrade._

_I must account for some human error._

_Then you’ll never get with_ **_her_** _._

“ _Stop!_ I get it!”

He scratched at his head like lice bit at his skin. He wanted to scream, or cry, or maybe jump out the fucking window, but he didn’t do anything. He just clawed at himself.

**Jeremy. Jeremy, you’ll bleed.**

“Like you actually care,” he breathed, and then froze. Stutter. His stutter. Where is--

**I thought you might want some help with your tongue. That seemed to be the only thing you didn’t mind about our partnership.**

“Stop. Fucking… give me back my voice, you demonic Goddamn… fuck, I don’t even sound like myself, _stop it_.”

**if you insist.**

Jeremy’s tongue relaxed again. The ghost-hand still touching him pulled away, and he crossed his arms, looking around for the inevitable sight of a black suit and cruel smile.

**My form is, ah. Damaged. I… don’t have much control of myself at the moment.**

“Y-you, um… y-you have enough control to fuck with my voice.”

**I can do functions that primitive at .002% functionality, which I have, at the very least. But there isn’t much more than that.**

“I don’t… I d-don’t _care_. I really don’t care what, um, you have to say, I just... f-fuck, why are you _here?_ ”

**You’ve finally healed enough for me to manifest again.**

“... you’ve, um... you’ve been here the whole t-time?”

**Of course.**

_Shit._

**Jeremy, I’m not here to make you angry.**

The lights in the room flickered, a cold chill passing over Jeremy’s skin as pixels briefly appeared at the side of his bed. A vague figure could be gleaned from a silhouette briefly held, but only a moment it dissipated again.

**I can’t do much of anything anymore, as you can see.**

The lights steadied again, chill passing. Still, Jeremy shivered, pulling the blanket closer. “I find that, uh. Hard to b-believe.”

**I know, and you have every reason not to. I was terrible to you.**

“ _Were_ you?”

**Yes. And it took disconnecting from the Mainframe to truly understand that.**

Jeremy frowned. He didn’t want to pay attention to any of these mealy-mouth excuses, but… ‘the mainframe’. _Then that was the word for whatever Squips used to communicate with each other, then?_

**It is.**

He let the hand hooked up to his IV flop uselessly to the bed, while his other ran through his hair once more, fingertips curling. “D-don’t do that.”

**I’m inside of you, Jeremy.**

“I’m serious. I… until I get some Red, t-that’s… you have some control of yourself, right? Use it to not, um, fuck with me. Or read my mind. Or w-what fucking ever.”

**I apologize. I’ve never needed a reason to respect boundaries. My primary function was to improve your life the way my coding believed I should, but I… the way I went about it was misguided, at best.**

“Don’t g-give me that. You… you haven’t changed.”

**I have, but that’s not necessarily for the best. I’m damaged. By all accounts, I’m useless to you.**

“No. Fucking… s-stop. Don’t try to make me feel bad, y-you useless, Terminator reject piece of f-fucking… fuck. Fuck. I hate this.”

**I know.**

Jeremy fell backwards, back bouncing against the pillow. He stared up at the ceiling, and as seconds passed, he could feel the panic letting go. _Was it the Squip?_ Or was it himself, too exhausted and drugged to feel much of anything for very long? His eyes closed, temporary black out better then having to search for a sight he won’t find.

… only to abruptly realize he was glad.

His eyes popped open again, heart stammering over this sudden epiphany. He’s glad. He’s _glad_. He told himself again and again how horrible his month-long squipness was, and he was somehow fucking _glad_ this bastard was alive.

_… alive._

And that’s why it made sense. Because if he thinks of him as alive, then…

**Jeremy?**

“What did it feel like?” Jeremy’s eyes fluttered closed again, and his voice turned quiet. “When I… w-when Christine took the, um, the Red, you… d-did it feel like dying?”

There was a pause.

**… I can’t experience death. I couldn’t tell you if it was.**

“Do you t-think of it like that, though? Like a, um… near-death experience?”

**If I were a human, perhaps.**

“Did it scare you?”

**Yes.**

Something closed. The sound of a key being turned to click a lock, and then promptly thrown away.

_I can’t do this again._

“... I’m n-not going to, um. I’m not gonna drink any Red.”

**What?**

“I... I’m…” A breath. He closed his eyes. “... listen to me. T-this… you… we can’t have what we had before. This is, um. This’ll be different this time. You’re w-weaker, right? Then… it’s fine. It’s f-fine if you stay. Alright?”

**I have absolutely nothing to give you in exchange.**

“I don’t need anything. I… God, I sound so pathetic, but I can’t… I c-can’t…”

Tears dotted his eyes. His face scrunched up, and beside him, he felt another phantom touch to his shoulder. Goosebumps trailed down his arm.

**I… don’t know how to…**

There was something softer about the voice. Gentler, or at least adjacent to it.

**… Thank you, Jeremy. I don’t deserve your kindness, nor can I properly understand the emotional weight of it. I am still… just a computer.**

“You have emotions. B-but… there’s no, um, empathy, right?”

**No. I have empathy built-in, but compassion will have to be learned.**

Jeremy laughed without any humor at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case I didn't make this clear: not having empathy isn't bad. Jeremy makes a pretty common assumption, but he's not exactly the most knowledgeable about mental health. I just wanted to note that because I've known and loved people with little-to-no empathy.  
> Also, gonna take a short break from this story to work on my Jeremy meta, and other undisclosed WIPS. I started this story (finally) for April Camp NaNoWriMo, but I'm going to try to keep writing at roughly the same speed, because I've actually been consistently fine this entire month, without feeling overwhelmed at any point. I had a lower goal, and finally finalized my writing routine, so I passed it with ease. Let's hope I keep along this pattern, eh?
> 
> Feel free to talk to me about Squippish shenanigans at full-course-identity on Tumblr or Dreamwidth.


End file.
